


Snow Drifting

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [32]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Hypothermia, M/M, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Sickness, idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:38:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: You have to start somewhere, even if you don't think you should.





	Snow Drifting

**Author's Note:**

> Started as vent, evolved into something else, idk.

He's not soft enough for this.

He's too brittle, sharp angles and jutting bone, a soup of sour tar and bad memories and scars on the wrists and ankles and chest, and there couldn't be anything left in him to make up for it all.

But...he couldn't make himself not want such things.

He was smart enough, oh he was sharp enough as well, because he's made his mistakes, his moves on that Throne, he knew what he has done, now, it's only taken a little time to fully realize, understand.

It took after the failure of the portal to start sinking in, really sink in, that Maxwell had fucked up really, really badly.

Apparently, all he had needed was to be in the crowd of pawns once more, cut down to size, to be shoved and pushed into a group that both hated and needed him. He wasn't nearly as logically valuable, he was smart enough to realize that, but another set of hands was always needed, wanted, especially when the hounds came in their howling hungry packs.

Or when the winter giant started its approach, needed to be drawn away from the camp itself, needed that simple distraction, enough to have its eye land elsewhere and its feet tread flatter land.

Or even when supplies were just needed, an extra few logs or planks of refined wood, scattered rocks or gold chunks. The pigs could be exceptionally agreeable at times, parting with more gold than usual when one knew how to pull their strings.

Funny, how much easier it was, bullying a few pigs about, but when turned back to camp and faced with everyone else it was so much harder. It wasn't, once, but he was starting to forget what that felt like.

Losing that control hadn't fully set in his mind, not even when he had first died due to his own incompetence, but the moment he had truly understood he had no such grounding anymore had been far too jarring of a reality.

He couldn't control the weather, couldn't stop a simple freezing blizzard, couldn't do much but tough it out like everyone else, and he couldn't stop something as simple as a fever, an illness, from catching onto the group.

Avoiding it was...too easy. Sickness couldn't get its claws into him with ease now, not with the shadows in his veins. 

But self assuredness didn't ease whatever he was feeling, hearing the coughs of a small child echoed in a too quiet camp, the ill wheeze in a strong man's lungs, the slight hint of shaking cold in an old woman's shoulders. He didn't have to look, not if he didn't want to, but the hustle and bustle of the others was distracting enough.

And, with the numbers now effectively crippling the productivity of the camp as a whole, he was now part of the force that had to keep it running, forced to be a backbone when he…

He...didn’t want to say he couldn't, that he just can't do it, because in the end he had to. The viking started coughing and wheezing quickly after that, and the snow storm hardly let up enough to even be visible enough.

The fire had to be taken care of, constantly, and he couldn't take that job, not with who was available to go out and who could not. His niece was not ill, not yet, but sending her out would be a death sentence for the little girl, and even he could see that.

Obviously, he was a better option, to go out with shadows at his back, wood to chop and gather, spider glands to harvest from unattended nests.

He didn't have to check the rabbit traps, nor gather what simple resources they needed from tediously snow laden areas; the few others had that under control, apparently.

The clone next to him was also apparently enough to make him technically a pair. To the others, he wasn't going out alone.

Even with an old made giant fur coat, a small part of the whole hide, sheared into pieces for just about everyone, it was far too cold to go out treading for supplies in his opinion. The thermal stone in his pocket had lost its heat quickly, pressed coldly to his side, and the visibility was even worse than usual. Finding the edge of the forest, spiders and wood all he was tasked to take back, was harder than he had wanted it to be.

But the trees swept the snow back a little, and he fought the urge to rub at his face, brush snow from his hair because his gloves were frozen stiff and he was numb enough already, no need to make him feel more discomfort.

The lack of a hat wasn't lost on him; there were only so many pieces of winter clothing to be handed out, and he drew the short straw on that.

The steps of the shadow beside him were, quiet, near silent except for the shifting of its near non existent weight, and he hardly gave it a glance as he trampled on, sinking into the snow drifts, hating every second of it. 

Once further in, wind billowing and trees heavy laden with snow build up, arms crossed and hands stuffed under his armpits, hunched in his coat and shivering violently already, it hardly took a brief word of power before the axe manifested and the shadow got to work, hacking at the closest tree almost immediately. As its whacks entered the air, the tree shivering and dumping its held snow in piles that he sidestepped, Maxwell backed off to step under another tree, bracing himself to the trunk as another gust of the storm got its way through the forests protective cover. Taking out a few trees was going to reduce that, and it was going to get far colder from here on.

As the clone felled each tree, one by one, scraping away the branches with quick, unhindered movements and then slicing the trunk into manageably small pieces, stacking them nearby, the old man fought off the urge to seat himself, shivering as he waited. Wasting supplies for a fire was out of the question, and sitting down would lead to him either dozing or just plain giving up. It was far too cold to be out here, but he had to be.

More like forced, but he had no choice. Arguing with a sickly, sniffling viking woman over having to go out in the storm had not been on his to do list, and it would have escalated had not they both heard Webbers weak coughing from the old womans tent, Wickerbottom poking her head out to ask them, in a strained, hoarse voice, to take the fight elsewhere.

His niece had come up a moment later, voice quiet and whispered thin, telling the both of them that the fire will be out before the day is done, that no more wood sat nearby. The lumberjack hadn't been able to go out, hacking and coughing in bed while the mime darted between tents, bringing water and food and other supplies about, face tense and walk quick, short, only a brief pat laden on Wendy's shoulder and a stressed look turned their way, already continuing on.

“Everyöne is döing what they can.” Wigfrid had hissed, turning a red tinged, jaundiced glare his way, looking pale and shakily thin, something he would never, ever be used to seeing in the warrior, nor ever be able to forget. “What can yöu öffer in turn?”

There was a faint prod, icy cold poke of comprehension and with that Maxwell slowly, carefully straightened up, the shadow hovering nearby, stiff and unyielding as it stood next to its pile of readied wood. The wind gusted with its flakes of snow, filling in over the barren tree stumps left over, a new, cold clearing having been born anew in the storm.

The bag on his back, large and stretched with pig skin, held almost all of the wood, his hands shaking as he tried to organize and adjust the pieces, fingers numb and breath fogged, stolen by heady gusts as he crouched down. The shadow stood at his side, close, but snow flew through it with ease; its form was no barrier, and it tilted its head ever so slightly, only returning to normal form when he finally gave up and stood, heavy pack in hand. He couldn't take all of it, but enough logs for now were stuffed in the bag, and, carefully slinging the heavy thing to his back, bending ever so slightly under the weight and gritting his teeth as his spine protested, numb legs shaking for a moment before he adjusted, Maxwell only eyed the last stack of wood for a moment before turning away. Someone else can pick it up, later.

The spiders were next; the glands were supposed to be helping, but they all knew honey would work so much better. Winter had killed the bees, or at least sent them to sleep, so all they had now was the natural antiseptic. 

From what he's heard, it stung terribly going down, even with how the old woman tried to make it palatable. Foliage and bits of mandrake didn't do much, and their supplies for even that was running low; it was the only reason a mandrake soup hadn't been made as of yet. There just wasn't enough to be found, and the camp was doing what it could to survive. 

Maxwell didn't even know how long until spring, or at least until the storm would let up. Their Queen seemed to be having a cold front in mind, and it was almost overstaying its welcome. Perhaps she bored of this simple game, now, and wished to cause a bit of havoc. 

Certainly a slow death, and not a nice one. Maxwell was not looking forward to it.

Finding the path under the snow took a bit, scuffing at the ice and trying to remember what the map had looked like, having not taken it with him, but eventually the clones icy cold prod of thought, the invasion of seeing through it, got through and he found the trail deeper into the forest. The snow was easier on the feet here, but mud mixed through, a slosh his worn shoes broke through, making the landscape disturbed and messy with his steps.

Spider nesting was quiet, silent under the storm blown trees, webbing glistening with the ice, and if the wind wasn't cutting through branches just to slice him he might have appreciated the beauty it could create.

Taking a few steps back, using another tree as support, Maxwell was tired and cold enough now to have to close his eyes, teeth chattering as he spoke a few more words, commands. Directing the shadow took more effort now, especially with what he needed it to do, and it wasn't weakness, accepting that the blizzard had weakened him just as much as the rest of the group.

Food was getting hard to come by, and to keep stocked, and he wasn't the only one going without to ensure the sick got their share.

He'd argue about it, if it wasn't the fact that both children were explicitly given large amounts than anyone else. Something always rose in him, his throat, whenever he entertained the idea of arguing that they didn't need such amounts of food that could be going to others, and he'd rather choke than argue a point of starving Webber and Wendy for the sake of himself.

As he allowed the shadows buzz of comprehension to dull him a bit more, numbly nudging it to task, stepping on webbing and drawing out the slow, cautious spiders, to skewer at a safe distance, Maxwell found himself growing tired.

Only the shadows quick, sharp interference kept him up, a pin prick of pain as it yanked glands out of mandibles mouths, tossing them in a pile near his feet, along with chunks of dug out spider flesh that it mixed indiscriminately as it continued onward. Shadow sizzled with purple monster blood, the heavy thud of spider bodies hitting packed snow, and he hunched his shoulders, the Bearger made coat not nearly as warm as he wished. The lack of sleeves would always get to him, but making those required more of the giants hide and, even so large, it could only make so much.

Eventually he felt its attention waver, a slow stillness as the nest shivered hollowly, only its sleeping queen hiding in the depths, and Maxwell had a bit of trouble opening his eyes, standing slowly, pigskin bag heavy and dragging on his shoulders. The ice and frost on his face caused him to make an attempt to brush away, hissing in a cold breath at the faint numbed pain, but there wasn't much he could do.

Perhaps he should have brought a scarf or something; Wilson usually had one on, to cover his face when it became particularly nightmarishly cold out. But that required silk and furs, not to mention the time and patience. His hands were frozen enough as they were, even when at camp, and no one would be willing to make such a thing for him anyway. The Bearger coat and thermal stone was all that he was getting here, and even then once he got back to camp they'd take it all to hand off to the next idiot who'd wander out into the storm.

He supposed he could bug Wilson about it, but the cold made the man snappy and it was harder to bully him and his odd soft mentality. Can't try to manipulate that rug when said rug was ready to strangle him at any opportunity.

Crouching down, wincing at the numb pains and aches flaring up in his knees, his back, buffeted by a gust of ice cold wind, Maxwell fumbled for the empty bag hanging from his shoulder. The pigskin pack was for heavier loads, a boulder of anvil pain situated right on top of his spine, but the seeping, already starting to freeze glands were lighter, easier to start stuffing away. The meat he eyed, weighing his options, silent, before heaving a sigh and taking the chunks as well, purple blood staining his frozen, worn down gloves as he made sure they didn't brush up too much with the glands.

The shadow at his side shifted its weight, ever so slightly, and he fought the urge to close his eyes as his teeth chattered; seeing himself move through his own eyes was disorienting, especially with how cold and numb he was already. He mentally waved away the cold tendrils of comprehension, questioning it was sending him, and slowly stood back up, the bag at his side thumping lightly against his hip, its load already starting to soak the fabric and silk of it.

He knew it was trying to be helpful, in its own vague way, the understanding of what he personally wanted configuring with its own workings, but he had no time for that. Not here, in a winter storm, where he was more likely to fall over and just decide to not get up again.

Adjusting the bag on his shoulder took a moment, hands clawed frozen and gritting his teeth as brief gusts of the storm forced through the protective trees, and then Maxwell turned away from the ice laden nests, stuffing his hands under his armpits and hunching his shoulders, trying to puff up the snow touched cloak he had in an attempt to warm it up a bit better. The map in his head was waning with his senses, unfortunately, but he did know which way would make sure he didn't meet anymore spiders; even without being able to see the sun, it would eventually be evening and the arachnids would come crawling out in all their hesitant hunger.

Trampling stiffly through almost knee high snow hills, his previous track long covered over, Maxwell ducked his head, breath fogged and cold as his shadow trailed behind, hesitant and wavering. The cold didn't affect it, but his own strength did.

It's time was drawing near.

The trees thinned, a bit, and there was even poorer visibility now, stumbling to a halt as he squinted through the violent snow wind, gusting past him and making his face even more frozen than before. With the snow so thick on the ground, he couldn't even tell if he's passed from one biome to the next.

How wonderful, he realized, to get lost in a snowstorm. Perhaps he should just give up right now.

But, out of all of them, he was the most capable of bringing back the amount needed. The firestarter had gone out in the opposite direction, also for wood, but with this cold she'd either retreat back or head home with charcoal and ash, nothing too substantial at this point. Maxwell had little faith in the woman, especially when it came to the cold. Wilson had gone for the rabbits and grass supplies, the engineer had stayed behind with his niece and the mime to care for the sick, and as cold as he was he could hardly remember if there was anyone else healthy enough to go out and not huddle in a tent with sickness in their breath and a throat burning with vomit and refined spider venom.

Why did he have to be a backbone again? Oh right, because the viking and strongman had taken ill too quickly and could hardly do anything else besides complain and cough without covering their faces. 

What with Wilson looking for edible food, it looked like he couldn't just sit down and wait out a slow death. That wouldn't be all that fair, now would it.

Just as he decided to take a step, not a single tree ahead to allow visibility, Maxwell felt the vaguest of shivers, a sudden thrum up his spine that, being as numbed as he was, made it excruciating enough to have to close his eyes to and grit his jaw. He turned his head, to watch the shadow wobble, stumble towards him, and then it shuddered a last time and collapsed, sinking darkness into the snow.

It didn't even leave a bit of fuel behind, so drained as he was.

He frowned, watching as the storm already started to cover the black stain left behind, before turning away.

What a horrific warning to him. If he didn't get out of this and back to camp soon, he'd not have a choice in whether he was being fair or not.

He was at least glad for his gloves; looking at what was surely frostbite, so used to the pain that he was hardly noticing with the numbness of cold, would surely be too demoralizing. But if losing a few fingers was all it took to ensure the youngest at camp didn't have to, then he'd go through with it.

Now, all he had to do was actually get through this mess, and not get even more lost.

There were no faint snow bound silhouettes of trees out here, nothing but the snow hills that crunched and then sank through with his weight, even as light as he was. It was probably a good thing he was so cold; Maxwell was sure he was starving at this point. A whole day without food didn't sit well on him, but it couldn't be said that he'd just give up so easily. Even if it was certainly more than just one day at this point.

Grabbing the spider meat was probably a good move, then; the shadow had been paying some proper attention, at the very least.

At some point, it grew a bit harder to formulate too much thought and distraction, and Maxwell idly wondered on if even trying would do him any good. It felt as if he was getting nowhere at all, slogging through snow and directly against the storms wind, pushing and tugging at him, the bags on his back and shoulder growing heavier with every minute.

Taking a moment, hissing in shallow breath and squinting at the swirling storm attempting to blind him, Maxwell stopped, felt the snow start to pile at his feet and fill his left behind footprints. He had no idea where he was, and it was unfortunate but he was starting to think that he was going to die out here.

At least, until he caught a faint flicker of something, different from the cold white and blue and steady hint of darkness closing in. Evening was here, and there was a light ahead, to his left, almost hidden by snowstorm.

What luck, he found someone.

Maxwell was fairly certain he was not at all enthused about the idea. He actually didn't feel anything, at the moment, wondered a bit fuzzily if that was going to end up being a problem. 

He also wondered if he should just shrug off the damn logs, but stubbornly fought the idea off. He was out here to get wood, he'd get the damn wood, even if it just flat out killed him.

Hell, if he could figure out the direction of camp, he'd tough it out all the way there, and as long as he got there with their stupid fucking supplies they needed so bad then he didn't think he cared too much if he dropped dead the moment he got there. As long as he got there, at the very least.

That light wasn't camp, not at all, Maxwell swaying a moment before stiffening as wind buffeted him violently, having to close his eyes and duck his head before it seemed to gentle out the slightest bit. But whoever was there, firestarter or scientist or some other idiot, it didn't matter, they should know the proper direction to go.

Maxwell just wanted to get back to his tent, and dump the weights on him in front of that bloody viking just to rub in her face that yes, he was doing something, are you happy now damn it? He was freezing to death out here and could hardly organize his thoughts right and the damn wood was going to break his back and out of it all he was sure he wasn't even going to get the barest of an appreciative thank you.

Squinting his eyes, leaning forward to shove against the blowing storms wind and head towards the faint light, Maxwell steeled himself for at least this push.

Slowly the silhouettes of shadow started to show through, the flecks of snow obscuring his vision even more so as he got closer, and it took a moment to recognize what it was that he was seeing.

A snow drift, one of the larger hills that he's been avoiding, piled high with snow, but he could see the flicker of a small fire and the semi hollowing out of the snow itself, an icy barrier, shallow cave, to the winds madness. It took even longer, pushing through the snow that his feet sunk into so easily, almost to his knees now, he must be in one of the lower biomes to allow such build up, to see who actually owned the fire itself.

That damn hairstyle was all too easy to make out, even in a thick snow storm, and Maxwell sighed, resigned himself. Because of course.

The other man didn't stand up as he approached, but he did lean forward, squinting, and Maxwell finally stumbled into a spot of quiet stillness, wind whistling above as the drift protected him from the worst of it.

“Didn't think I'd see you out here. Weren't you supposed to go to the forest?”

The fire was smaller than he would have liked, Maxwell eyeing it with a scowl, and he didn't even attempt to not look disappointed as he examined the odd shelter Wilson had dug for himself. 

It was shaped like a crescent, a hollowing in the snow and ice hill, the fire close but not too close to the ice walls, and there was still a bit of a wind but it at least wasn't like before, trying to walk through it all. Wilson sat, looking not at all too bothered, beefalo cloak hanging from his shoulders and a grass mat underneath him, and he certainly did not at all look as if the cold was attempting to kill him.

“I did. Got a bit lost.” It actually hurt to talk, or at least felt odd, slurred, and Maxwell swayed, the warmth of the small fire not nearly enough, not at all for his numb face or the heavy, dull ache in his back, the ice cold chunks of baggage hanging from him, or the slow fog that was starting to creep up on him.

Wilson gave him an odd look.

“You should...probably sit down.” The man got up, wrapped his cloak tighter about himself, and Maxwell had no idea how to read that expression, but a heavy sigh left him when Wilson helped him get the bags from his shoulders. Without showing any strain, he noted, and it irritated him a bit more than he'd have thought.

Of course what felt too heavy for him was easier for someone else, of course. That just meant he could have probably carried more of those damn logs that he had instead left behind.

Having the weight off hurt as well, freeing but painful, and he hadn't even realized he had closed his eyes until Wilson was pressing on his shoulders and trying to get him to sit down on that mat. If he had been a bit more aware he'd have been offended, being directed so, but at the moment he was starting to realize that he was feeling very, very cold, and very, very slow, tired.

He wasn't even shivering at this point, and some vague thought in the back of his mind reminded him that it was probably a bad thing.

Sitting down hurt, a wheeze because there was a sharpness in his knees before dulling over with numbness, and he hardly noticed as Wilson dug out the ice cold thermal stone he still had on him, the dull thump of the rock chucked next to the fire.

“How long have you been out then? And only with a stone and a vest, this is one monster of a storm, Maxwell, you need more than just that. Did you even have supplies for a fire?”

Maxwell didn't answer that, feeling the faintest of warmth from the fire now, eyes still closed, but he could hear the other man dig in his bag, heard the exasperated sigh and muttering afterwards.

“I...hadn’ meant to stay out long.” His mouth still felt numb, hardly noticing the slurring in his voice, and it took some effort but Maxwell finally wiped at his face, blinking his eyes open to realize that he had a lot more snow on him than he had initially realized. “For logs and...glands.”

“And meat.” Wilson tossed out the chunks into the snow, in its own pile, and Maxwell didn't even have the energy in him to get mad about it. “You shouldn't mix the two, it'll become unusable.”

Maxwell's hands were still frozen stiff, making it hard to wipe his face, and after a moment Wilson shuffled about and tossed a few of the logs from the pigskin bag into the fire, encouraging it up.

The blaze of sudden heat was almost painful, and Maxwell snatched his hands back, leaned away with a snarl on his face, squinting his eyes, feeling completely and utterly Not Very Good as a wave of lightheadedness caught him.

And then there were hands on his, pulling his arms away, and Wilson tugged off his frozen stiff gloves, a hard frown on his face.

“You're an idiot.”

Maxwell would have snapped something back, had not the harsh pain of warmth and nausea and dizziness hit him all too hard, closing his eyes as he felt Wilson massage his hands, try to untense them. There was a brief pause, for a moment, and then Wilson huffed, tugging him into getting the soaked cold fur coat off of him before throwing the beefalo cloak over him as substitute.

“We can't afford another person getting sick, or killed, Maxwell.”

He huffed in answer, and the shivering was starting up again, violently, and damn it all this was not pleasant feeling in the slightest, sharp pin pricks like needles as the other man adjusted the cloak over Maxwells shoulders, muttering under his breath all the while.

That fog that had been numbly setting on him, disorentating and very, very apathetic, was being harshly sheared away, and Maxwell had the sudden thought that he absolutely hated winter and cold and snow and ice and everything else it entailed.

His shaking was getting worse, a bit hard to breath actually, or more like he had just realized how shallow and dizzy he felt, and then he felt hands tug on his jacket.

“What-”

“You are a fucking idiot, Maxwell, now shut up.”

Maxwell had to blink his eyes a few times, the fire was almost too bright, and Wilson glared at him, getting his suit jacket off quickly before bundling the beefalo fur cloak back around him, and Maxwell would have argued had not the cold sank in for only a moment, sharp, dizzy, causing him to try to curl up and shiver as Wilson continued to practically manhandle him.

“If you die on me because of _hypothermia_ , of all things, I'm going to be pissed. You should know better by now.” It was sort of hard to think, for a moment, Maxwell shivering and feeling more ill than ever, chest aching and sharp pins and needles chasing the numbness away, and his hands hurt too, now, tingling as feeling returned and warmth started to spread.

He hated this, on many levels, but all he could do was shiver and shake as Wilson got about taking his shoes off, a focused, determined look on his face.

“Last person I had to do this with was Willow, and it's easy to just toss her into the fire and know she won't just up and die from shock.” The man was rambling, quiet muttering to fill the silence as the storm continued to billow, sometimes buffeting the fires flames, and after a moment he turned away to gather up the warmed stone, yellow and radiating a small wave of warmth. “Webber is even harder, spiders don't do well in extreme cold, and even though I did all I could think of they still lost a few claws and patches of fur. I felt terrible about it, and still do.”

The heat of the stone, carefully pressed to his chest, made Maxwell shudder, a noise of surprise, and he still felt unbearably dizzy and ill, but the cold was fading, he wasn't trembling nearly so violently now. He had the mind to take the stone in his own hands, fighting through the sting in his fingers as he held it close, and he could hear Wilson sigh next to him.

“If we were back at camp, I'd not have been so rough, but I don't have the resources and I really don't need you dropping dead right now.”

He didn't answer, taking a shaky breath, and Maxwell could feel the exhaustion crawling on him, over him, seeping into his limbs, when was the last time he's ever felt so very tired-

“Hey, don't fall asleep just yet.” His vision was very out of sorts, wobbly and squinting before finally landing on Wilson, and the man was frowning, eyes worried as his hands kept a firm grip on Maxwells shoulders. “Like I said, I don't want you dying on me.”

“...m’fine.” He closed his eyes, taking a shallow, cold breath, and the shivers were lighter, not as violent, but constant and irritating. The storms whistling grew louder, whipping above the semi hollowed out drift of snow and ice, and he felt Wilson let go of him for a moment, shift around a bit.

And then touch beside him, pressure as the other man pressed close. The warmth of the thermal stone wasn't as painful anymore, eerily shifting as he cupped his hands and hunched his shoulders, and his thoughts were still dizzy in confusion but it was warmer and it isn't hurting anymore and he could latch onto that at the very least.

Slowly but surely, he was starting to become more aware again.

The bad part of losing that numbness, now, was that he could feel the aches and pains from the rest of his body, no distractions whatsoever. And his gut, empty stomach for far too many days, was deeply unhappy.

The tips of his fingers still stung as well, burning almost, but then he felt cool hands, dull claws take his own and press touch, gentle massage to his hands. He hadn't even realized it, but he had slumped over, was leaning heavily onto the other man, and it was a vague thought, the realization of how warm Wilson actually was, that drifted from his tired mind.

He felt when Wilson sighed, a deep inhale and exhale, before there was a bit more movement, claws still carefully rubbing his hands.

“You feel better now?”

Maxwell waited a moment, tried to organize his exhausted mind, but he didn't feel nearly so nauseous, and certainly not dizzy anymore. The cold was still there, but there was warmth too, and he didn't feel as slow or apathetic, only a dragging fatigue.

“...Yes.”

“Good.”

He was anticipating the other man to push him up, to go about doing whatever he had been doing before Maxwell had showed up, but…

He didn't. Maxwell was kept up, breathing quietly, the pain in his chest gone finally, and it was warm, warm enough now.

He opened his eyes, squinted, the fire not nearly as blazing but still holding strong under the winds onslaught, and it was pleasing, to sit here and not be touched in the slightest by the storms rage. 

“Why’re you so good at these sort of things…” he mumbled, closing his eyes and turning his head briefly, heaving a sigh as Wilson remained still and continued to keep him up and comfortable. 

“...Good at what?” 

There was hesitance, in his voice, but Maxwell was too tired to even notice.

“The ice, and the storm, and the snow…” 

There were other words he wanted to use, unsaid now, barely even implied, but he was far too exhausted to even try to explain himself better.

In his mind's eye he wondered just how long it took for Wilson to fix up such a brief, shoddy shelter, or on how he had even gotten the idea, the trial and error of before all this.

“Oh. I had originally planned a better shelter, but I didn't want to stay long so I made it small.” 

Maxwell hummed in answer, and he had set the thermal stone in his lap, one hand overtop it, other with dull claws touching and rubbing over his knuckles almost gently.

“...Might have a bit of frostbite there.” 

He felt the man draw his hand away, turning his palm up to examine, and kept his eyes shut, just letting the warmth soak in. 

The storm wasn't going to stop soon, and he wanted to bask in this for as long as possible.

“But you should be fine, as long as you keep your hands warm. Nothing looks dead as of yet.”

That sounded encouraging, and Maxwell sighed, the bunched up beefalo cloak warm and cozy, tucked over his shoulders and shrouding him. 

“...Be more careful, next time.” For a brief moment he felt Wilson lean against him, the turn of the other man's head, feeling the brief touch of skin to skin, chapped lips to his cheek, and then it was gone.

“Like I said-”

“-you don't want me dead just yet.” Maxwell hummed, voice rough but clear. “I know, I know.”

There was a lump in his throat, a funny feeling in his chest wholly different from the pains of earlier, and he favored the dark of his eyelids to anything else, even though he could see the warm red static of the fires light through it all.

Wilson shifted a bit, cleared his throat, and when he talked he sounded focused again, not on Maxwell this time either.

But his claws didn't leave Maxwells hand, continuing to gently rub his knuckles and entwine their fingers.

It made Maxwell feel things he didn't want to think about, and he almost missed what Wilson was saying now.

“-and it's getting dark, we won't be able to see at all. Getting back to camp would be impossible.”

“...What of the wood and glands? The others need that today, not tomorrow.” He followed Wilsons example, voice level and clear, keeping control even as he let himself lean a bit more, felt the other man shift and accept his weight, getting comfortable.

“It'll be impossible to navigate without getting lost, and it will be far colder then too. You are still recovering as well; it'll be a death sentence for the both of us. Willow went out the same time I did, before you I think. She'll be able to get back to camp with enough to tide them over, don't worry.”

He felt a weight lift from his shoulders a bit, the excuse handed to him with ease, and with that another sigh left him, relaxing. 

It was warm, and he was tired, but it wasn't that foggy tiredness, the cold or dizzy sickness; it was something else.

For a moment they sat in silence, and Maxwell couldn't help himself, in cherishing the feeling of the other man pressed close to him, in comfortable silence.

And then his stomach growled, breaking the mood all too laughably easy.

“I...have a couple of rabbits. Had a spot of luck with them today.” 

He could hear the helpful note in Wilson's voice, could feel his gaze as the man turned his head, and with a low, unhappy groan Maxwell straightened up, one hand going to wipe at his eyes as he blinked them open to snow and the flames.

His other hand was still being held, and he didn't dare disturb that.

“Just use the monster meat. Wouldn't want the others complaining that I'm eating their food.”

He didn't even have to see Wilson to know he was making a face, and he felt the slightest of squeezes on his hand, dull claws entwining a bit more firmly.

“I'm sure Webber would be happy with the spider meat, Maxwell, so save that for them. It might even lift their spirits a bit.” He felt Wilson press against him, finally making Maxwell turn to look at him with a raised brow, and Wilson wasn't quite smiling but it was close. “When I said ‘spot of luck’, I meant more like a shit ton of luck. Two whole bags worth of luck, and both pigskin bags.”

That made Maxwell give him a disbelieving look, but Wilson shook his head, face not exactly serious but almost. 

“I'm not joking. They might be a bit skinny, but I think the rabbits were starting to starve down below and were coming up to try to find something to eat. Had a lot of them just walk into my traps just searching for food, not seeing me a foot away with the storm.”

The grip on his hand tightened, another squeeze, and the faintest traces of a smile actually graced Wilson's face, as if the memory was enough to lift his mood.

“So let's celebrate with one, yeah?”

It was an obvious choice; Maxwell wouldn't say no to real food if offered so willingly, especially after such an exhaustive experience.

And Wilson was a good cook, even if the rabbit was a bit on the thin, stringy side, a tad tough. Not eating in a few days makes anything taste great, and even with the dark and the storm rolling violently overhead, the wind kept in its line, above and away over the drifts makeshift packed roof, the set up, protected fire almost merry.

He's missed this, Maxwell realized quietly, suddenly, as Wilson rambled on about the rabbits and how the snow piled up over burrows, kept them from escaping whenever he had to run after them. There had been a mood change, somewhere, and the other man picked at the leftovers of the cooked rabbit as he talked, and Maxwell couldn't help the smallest of smiles from crossing his face.

Exhausted as he was, only the faintest of shivers shaking him from the nights air, feeling the same from Wilson as they sat together, Maxwell knew even before it happened that he'd fall asleep first.

And, with claws entwined with his fingers, Wilson rambling on quietly before falling into another comfortable silence, Maxwell was fine with that, just fine.

It was warm, and he was achingly tired, and he's done what he had been asked to do, and it was better, far better than fine.

*

In the morning, finding himself wrapped in both beefalo and Bearger winter coats, it was almost a surprise to see everything still, silent.

Feeling Wilson leaning against him, still asleep, the shared fur coats warmed even more with the both of them, took a moment to be realized in his still tired mind, and his limbs ached from the way he had fallen asleep but Maxwell could still feel their hands held together, warm under the furs, and with the storm gone, blown over finally, sky clear and air cold, fresh, it was…

Feeling rose in his chest, his throat, and for awhile Maxwell sat there, looking out at all the snow banks and hills covering the prairie, shined white that almost burned his eyes if he focused too hard. The other man's head lay on his shoulder, quiet breathes, and Maxwell closed his eyes, and tried very hard to pretend that this was it, this was all there was.

For a moment, he almost was able to believe.

And then he let out a sigh, mind turning to the camp, the sick that had to weather the storm in their tents with their friends, of his niece sitting near her friends bed, listening to their coughs and fever nightmares while the old woman fought off her own illness, covering her coughing with silk napkins and working slow and steady on leftover glands and mandrake leaves, roots.

Can't stay like this, or like last night, forever, no matter how much he wished to. It just wasn't the way the world worked.

When Wilson would wake, they'd pack up what little was left out, sling heavy bags over their shoulders, Wilson helping Maxwell stand up, holding his hand for only a moment more before letting go. He'd take the bag of logs, shoulder it and the pack of glands and monster meat with ease as Maxwell balanced as best as he could with bags packed with dead rabbits, and the snow would crunch under both of their steps, fall under their weight as Wilson picked out shallow snow paths to take back to camp.

It would take longer than they'd want, and colder too, the giant pelt on Maxwell's shoulders and beefalo fur hide over Wilsons, a bunched up hood about his neck, but there was no wind or snow falling from the sky so at least there was that.

During their walk back there seemed to be no end to the amount of winter puns Wilson had in mind to lay on him, as apparently someone at camp had lost it awhile back when they had heard Wilson use the word snow one too many times and had attempted to burn down the alchemy machine. Maxwell didn't remember hearing anything about puns, but a fire had happened a bit ago and it seemed that the incident had caused a minor ban on the use of puns in camp. So now the other man was using every single one he could think of before he had to shut up again.

Maxwell humored him, a bit. Most of them were very, very bad.

“I snow what you are, and snow am I” did catch him off guard though, and it was funny, how freeing a minor laugh at a bad pun felt.

There was activity, inside the camp, quiet and domestic, and for a moment free from rough, choking coughs. Maxwell slowed his step, stopped, and the feeling in his chest wiggled and clawed and silently screeched, and then quieted.

Wilson stopped a step ahead of him, waited, and it almost hurt, to see what was almost apologetic understanding on the other mans face, and he had the urge to reach over and take the other man's clawed hand before squishing the urge away.

There was no time for that, here, and this was not the world for it. Pretending can only go so far, and it crumbled under the face of reality.

And Maxwell would take a deep breath, and accept it.

There would be no party to welcome them back, but a pale, thin Wolfgang at the crockpots would shout a weedily little hello to them, slowly stand up with shaking legs and a slight cough before accepting the bags of rabbits Maxwell would hand over, and the roughened thanks given was almost enough to make things better.

Willow would be at the fire, tending to it with charcoal and bits of leftover wood she had scrounge up yesterday, and she'd complain for a moment before Wilson dumped the bag of logs down. And then the fire would go high, bright, and Willow paid them no mind, sticking her arms into the fire, then her hair, laughing and bubbling about the warmth and how damnably cold it had been last night.

Wendy would be with Webber, and Wickerbottom would be grateful, taking the glands and expressing her thanks, telling them that Webber was getting better even as the spider child got up, blinking all their eyes out of sync before smiling and hugging Wilson, coughing a big raggedly but not as throatily, not as roughly as before.

And when Maxwell would go back out, leaving Wilson to listen to Webber talk, a small parting thanks and nod from Wendy following behind him, Wigfrid would accoust him, hands on her hips, looking pale and hungry and still bloodshot but not coughing whatsoever, and she'd frown harshly and unhappily but there would be a thank you given to him before she'd storm off, and Maxwell…

Stood there, for a long moment, the winter morning bright and clear and chill, empty of its previous storm, the quiet background sounds of the camp itself.

And he'd think of the loss of control he had, now, how he couldn't do a damn thing to dictate anybody, not a creature and not the weather and not any of the pawns he was now joined with.

And of the thank yous directed towards him, because he had gathered up a damn bag of logs and spider pieces like he had been asked of, and he had gotten back to camp with the bloody stupid things without even dying once.

And of the other man who had sat with him the night before, and the morning after, of warmth and claws holding firmly to his hands.

Maxwell would think, for a long time, about this.

But for now, right now, still early morning, still having not gotten up, still tinged with sleep and warmth and comfort and feelings he'd never be able to name, nor ever entertain, for now, Maxwell felt softness.

And wished, really wished, to hold it for as long as he possibly could.

He had to start somewhere, after all.


End file.
